


take it on the run

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 + 1, 5 Things, Background Relationships, Batdad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dads just being dads, Drunken Confessions, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Parent Tony Stark, Protective Tony Stark, more like, no beta we die like jason todd, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Five times Tony called Bruce, and one time Bruce called Tony.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 21
Kudos: 423





	take it on the run

**Author's Note:**

> A cute drabble that's been sitting in my drafts for a while. Hope you enjoy :)

  * **Food  
  
** ****



“He’s eating too much.”

Bruce scrubbed a hand across his face, rolling onto his back. The light from his phone split the bedroom, painfully bright. He clenched his eyes shut, willing himself awake as he picked up the call. 

“What?”

“He’s eating too much food,” the voice on the phone repeated, frantic. “Peter had two lunches today. Then a couple snacks. Then dinner. Then _second dinner._ Then Stephen made dessert and he ate _half_ of it and now he’s downstairs on his eighth bag of fruit snacks, which,” the voice paused for breath, “is _a ludicrous_ amount of sugar for one person--”

“Tony.”

“--and even taking into account his enhanced metabolism, Stephen said he might be reducing his energy levels with the added vitamin B, which could explain why he got an eighty-nine on his math test yesterday. An _eighty-nine,_ Bruce!”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. _Three AM. Great._ “An eighty-nine isn’t...horrible.”

“That’s what you took from that?” Tony asked, aghast. In the background of the call, he could hear heavy metal music, pounding down the line. “Bruce, that’s basically a B!”

“Well,” Bruce countered, resisting a yawn. He considered getting up, but only managed to lift his head. “it’s a low A in the humanities.”

“I’m starting him on a--a food diary, or whatever the hell it’s called,” Tony said, not dignifying that with an answer. “I’m spending thousands on food every week since he moved in.”

“To be fair, he’s a growing teenager,” Bruce said. “And you skip meals all the time, Tony. You just spend your food money on alcohol instead.”

“Not anymore,” Tony muttered, barely audible down the line. Bruce raised an eyebrow, but there was no elaboration. “Shit, he just opened the ninth fruit snack. FRIDAY, gimme a sugar count.”

“ _Three hundred and sixty five grams in the last hour, sir._ ” a pleasant female voice responded. Tony made a squawking noise, dropping something loudly on the other side of the call. 

“I’m calling Stephen,” he said into the receiver, “We’re having an intervention.”

“ _Tony_.” Bruce said, finally sitting upright. “It’s three in the morning. Go to bed.”

“Bruce, he isn’t even sick yet. He ate ten packages of fruit snacks and he’s just _lying_ there--”

“Take a breath,” Bruce warned, “Resist the urge to intervene. He’s a teenager, Tony. They do weird things like that.”

“I never--”

“We weren’t normal teenagers,” Bruce interrupted, cutting him off before the other man could begin _that_ rant. “Look, when Jason hit puberty, he ate nothing but blood-rare steaks for a week. It was weird, it passed. Alfred and I handled it, you can too.”

“Gross,” Tony muttered. “Peter wouldn’t do that. I mean, please tell me he won’t do that. I’m pretty sure he’s one PETA advertisement away from becoming a vegetarian.”

“Sorry.” Bruce said, feeling remotely unapologetic. “If he wants tips, he can always ask Damian.” 

“ _Agh_.” He could see Tony’s face constricting. “Not in my household.” 

“I heard they make really good imitation meat soy chunks these days—“

“I’m hanging up now,” Tony said, cutting in. “Night!” 

The line clicked. Bruce stared at the ceiling, rolling his eyes.

“You called _me_.” he told the phone.

* * *

  * **Hospital** **** ****



“Bruce Wayne.” 

There was nothing but silence on the other end—never a good sign. Bruce glanced at the computer screen, squinting for the time. Late again, or early by Cave standards. 

Patrol had bled into action reports, and the only reason he wasn’t face down on a bed somewhere was the last piece of evidence he needed to log, sitting in a ziploc bag on the table next to him. 

“Hello?” he asked, frowning as he added another line of metadata. 

“...Bruce.” 

It was Tony’s voice—Tony’s tone, his pitch, but desperately warped by the effort of holding back tears. Cracking with the effort of getting the single word out. 

The in-between existence he held in the Cave, half Bruce, half Bat, shuttered instantly. His spine straightened as adrenaline flowed through his veins again, retracing the night’s pathways. 

_Tony—_

“Tell me what happened,” he said, pulling up Tony’s file on the monitor when the silence persisted. “ _Now.”_

“Hospital,” Tony gasped, breathing shallowly. “I’m at the hospital--Peter—he went out for patrol. Stephen found him—oh _god—“_

“I need you to take a deep breath,” Bruce cut him off, triangulating his cell signal with a flick of his wrist. _Metro General._ “Tony. I need you to take a breath _now._ You’re having a panic attack.” 

“I—I—“ Tony stuttered, voices clamoring in the background of the call. “Bruce, I—didn’t know who to—“ 

“Breathe with me,” he said, sifting through the hospital logs for the last hour. “One big breath. Ready?” 

_Peter Parker, major trauma to the head, unknown MVA. OR 15; MJD, SVS assisting_. 

Tony moved with him, his breath whistling down the line. Bruce had him hold it for a few seconds, then exhaled, pleased when the other man mimicked him. 

“Again, Tony,” he said, inhaling. He broke into the OR feeds with a keystroke. On the screen, Stephen was hovering near Peter’s head, gesturing to the surgeon as he explained an intricate maneuver with stiff hands. A scrub nurse held up a bone saw, looking attentive. 

Despite his useless fingers, despite the sight of Peter, pale and lifeless beneath the OR tubes and IV lines, Strange seemed confident. Bruce had seen that expression enough times in the mirror. 

“He’s going to be okay,” he told Tony, shushing the immediate protest. “Alright? Strange is with him. He’s going to be okay.” 

“It’s my fault—“

“Doesn’t matter,” Bruce cut him off. “Listen to me. You’re going to get a cup of coffee. You’re going to splash some water on your face and go to the post op reception room on the sixth floor. Repeat that back to me, please.”

Tony repeated the directions, still following the breathing cadence they’d shared earlier. 

“Good.” Bruce said. “You’re going to get yourself together, so when he wakes up, you’re there waiting for him. Understand?” 

He could hear Tony nodding jerkily on the other end. 

“Everything is going to be okay, Tony.” 

“I—Right.” 

“I want to hear you say it,” Bruce said. “Now.” 

“Everything is going to be okay,” Tony said, slowly. He paused, then added: “ _Tony.”_

“Smartass,” Bruce said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Text me when he wakes up.” 

“I will.” 

“Bye, Tony.” 

There was a deep inhale on the other end, just a half-step off cadence. 

“B-bye Bruce.”

* * *

  * **First Dates  
  
**



“Hey, Romeo,” 

Bruce winced, scrubbing a hand across his face. He remembered _that_ tone. 

“Do I want to know?” 

“Know what?” Tony asked, deflecting with a coy smile Bruce could almost see. “Can’t two reformed playboys catch up every now and then?” 

Bruce glanced across the bed, finding the clock on the nightstand. “At…3 PM?” 

“You just woke up, didn’t you?” Tony asked, sounding gleeful. “Party too hard last night, Wayne?” 

He winced, his ribs jarring together, as if to remind him how bruised they were. “Something like that.” 

“So,” Tony said, “hypothetically, if you were going on a date, maybe your _first_ date, and you had to bring something, what would you choose?” 

“What.”

“See, Stephen said flowers, but I thought that was kind of lame. Then he said chocolate, which was even worse, so I thought I’d call you.” 

Bruce sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “What did you say?” 

“Condoms and lube,” Tony answered, like clockwork. “Then _someone_ got all flustered and locked himself in the bathroom for half an hour because apparently that’s not ‘appropriate’.” 

Bruce could hear the air quotes without seeing them. One of Tony’s many talents. 

“Peter has a date tonight,” he surmised, after a pause. “The first one?” 

“Some girl from his chemistry class,” Tony said. “I asked Nat to do a full work up in case she was trouble. Seems nice enough, could work a little harder in AP Gov though—“

“I think flowers are fine.” 

“Really?” Tony was shocked. “Is that how you and Big Blue did it? I never took you for such a _romantic,_ Wayne.” 

“The first time we met properly, I tried to stab him with a kryptonite staff.” 

“— _ok,_ wow, that’s a lot to unpack.” Tony said, stumbling slightly. “How’d that go?”

“He didn’t like it.”

“No, yeah, clearly not a great move.” Tony hummed, sounding thoughtful. “I guess I saved half the universe with Stephen on our first ‘date’, if you wanna call it that.” 

“Like I said. Flowers are fine.” 

“I’m still sending him with condoms.” 

“He’s sixteen, Tony. And a smart kid. Let him breathe a little.” Bruce sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. “He wants to save himself for marriage, that’s none of your business.”

Tony made a hurt noise. “And desecrate the Stark playboy name?” 

“Tony—“

“I thought we could learn how to do STD checks together in the lab, you know, so it’s convenient? He doesn’t have to leave the tower that way—“

“ _Tony—“_

“—plus I’ve been telling him for months now where Stephen and I keep condoms so it’s not like he doesn’t know where to get them—“

Tony cut off as a doorbell rang in the background. Bruce could hear him cover the receiver, hissing something at Strange. 

“—shit—“

“—that her?” 

Bruce grinned and hit the _end call_ button, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

Peter was going to be fine.

* * *

  * **Fight  
  
**



Bruce picked up the call, nodding his thanks to his secretary as she took the outgoing mail from his desk. 

“Let me guess: he said his first swear word and you’re worried you’re rubbing off on him.” 

“Jesus,” Tony said, sounding peeved. “That’s too close for you not to be some sort of psychic.”

Bruce _mmhhm_ ed, crossing his legs. He leaned back in his office chair, examining the skyline. “Well?” 

“We fought,” Tony said, deflated. “I took the suit away. Now he won’t even talk to me. Stephen portals his meals to his _bedroom_ , for Christ’s sake.” 

“Why’d you take it away?” Bruce asked. 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know it does, Tony.” 

“Fine.” There was a shuffling sound on the other end of the line. “He’s hanging out with a few vigilantes in Hell’s Kitchen. Bad news, if you ask Nat. I told him to stop and he wouldn’t. Said they were his friends, or some dumb shit like that.” 

“Daredevil?” He guessed. Tony made a disgusted noise. “I heard he had a no-kill policy.” 

“Just puts his goons into medically induced comas instead,” Tony said darkly. “That guy’s fucked in the head, Bruce. Peter shouldn’t be—“

“He’s not going to listen to you if you keep talking about his friends like that,” Bruce said, wincing, “Grounding him like this is only going to backfire.” 

“He’s _sixteen—“_

“And that feels like adulthood to him,” Bruce said. “He doesn’t want you making decisions for him. Especially overbearing ones.” 

“I’m not overprotective,” Tony said, offended. “I just don’t want him hanging out with random vigilantes off the street Nat can’t even get good intel f—oh.” 

There was a pause. Then another. Bruce hid a grin behind his hand. 

“I swear my mother just spoke through me from beyond the grave,” Tony finally spoke, sounding horrified. “Did I just sound like my mother? Don’t lie, I need to know how badly I’m going to have to apologize.” 

“Maria was a lovely woman,” Bruce said, smiling so hard it hurt. “And loved you very much.” 

“Overbearingly,” Tony muttered. “Shit. Okay, I’ll call you back.” 

“No worries,” Bruce said. He’d get his answer in a few hours, if The Bugle was reliable. “Bye.” 

“Bye, you smug bastard.”

* * *

And if, a few hours later, a grainy cellphone video caught Daredevil and Spider-Man comparing backflips on the top of Stark Tower, that was none of Bruce’s business. 

Or Tony’s, to be fair.

* * *

  * **Dad  
  
**



This time, the call woke him in Smallville. 

Bruce shifted against Clark, edging out a tiny sliver of space on the small bed as he reached for his phone. Clark, to his credit, shuffled out of the way, an arm still slung over Bruce’s waist. 

“Hello?” he asked sleepily, fumbling for the volume. “Dick?” 

“Nope,” a familiar voice slurred, “guess again!” 

“Tony,” Bruce sighed, relaxing back against Clark’s shoulder. “Everything okay? It’s 3 AM.” 

“I’m actually surprised you’re asleep. You sure you’re not getting old?” Tony teased. Under the layer of drunkenness, there was a hint of a tremor in his voice. 

“You’re older than me,” Bruce reminded him. “I’m with Clark’s family in Kansas. They go to bed after Jeopardy, sue me.” 

The noise Tony made was undignified. “You didn’t even stay up for Wheel of Fortune?” 

“The fact that you know what’s on after Jeopardy is sad, Tony.” 

Tony laughed, tiny on the line. There was a pause, one Bruce let draw out, waiting for Tony to muster the strength to say whatever was on his mind. 

There was a swigging noise, then the sloshing sound of a bottle. Tony sighed, his voice wavering. 

“He called me _Dad_ , Bruce,” he said desperately, like that explained everything, the alcohol, the fake cheeriness, the late phone call. _Dad_. In a way, it did. 

Bruce nodded silently, still holding the phone to his ear. Clark stirred against him, mumbling something he didn’t catch before turning his face back into his pillow. 

“What do I _do?”_ Tony asked, breathless. “Bruce.” 

“I know,” he said. “I know, Tony.” 

“I’m kind of freaking out.” 

“I can tell.” 

“Asshole,” Tony said, still walking on air. “I don’t know whether to be sad or happy. Maybe a cross? Sappy?” 

“Already a word,” Bruce reminded him. Tony took another swig, chuckling. 

“I’m pretty sure my dad was happy the day I started calling him ‘Dr. Stark’,” he mumbled, suddenly downcast. “Gave him a real kick.” 

Bruce exhaled, his heart aching briefly for his friend. “You’re not your father, Tony.” 

“I just look like him,” Tony said, his tone deceptively light. “Right?” 

There was another long pause. He winced, knowing how deep that cut into Tony, hearing it from every magazine interview since he’d turned twenty-one. Knowing how deep it cut into himself, hearing it again and again in Gotham. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Bruce said, amused, “You’re much shorter in person.” 

There was a startled, offended silence. 

“ _Rude,”_ Tony exclaimed suddenly, “ _Extremely rude,_ Wayne! I’m hanging up.” 

“Sure you can reach the hook?” Bruce prodded. 

“I’ll have you know, this is a _cellphone—_ “

Bruce hit _end call_ before Tony could say anything else, chuckling to himself. 

Clark’s hand tightened around his waist, a silent question. 

“I’m fine,” he said, leaning back. “Just Tony being Tony.” 

“Oh God,” Clark mumbled, tucking his face into Bruce’s neck. “I don’t wanna know.”

* * *

**+1: quiet  
**

“‘Lo?”

“I need you to blast all of my children into near space orbit,” Bruce said seriously, “Preferably before noon.” 

Tony stared at the phone, taken aback. “You’re...not joking?” 

“No,” Bruce growled, sounding stressed. “Clark was supposed to take them up to the Watchtower earlier since the Zetas malfunctioned, but he got called away on a Lantern mission and I have a grant proposal I _need_ to have done by this afternoon—“ 

Tony nodded. “Okay—“

“They won’t shut up, Tony.” Bruce said, a tinge of desperation in his voice. “How do you make them _stop?”_

“I...don’t usually have this problem with Peter.” He admitted. “He’s pretty quiet. Sweet kid, really.” 

In the background, something clearly fragile shattered, echoing down the line. He could feel Bruce’s blood pressure rising. 

“ _Tony.”_

“There’s an idea,” he said, mostly to himself. “I’ll send Peter over. Just give me a few minutes.” 

“Tony, I don’t need more—Tony?”

“Trust me.” 

“Famous last words,” Bruce said, dubious. 

“It’ll be great,” Tony added, cheery. “He’ll teach them salsa dancing. He’s been learning in Spanish class. It’s a _big deal._ ” He said, making air quotes with one hand. Across the kitchen island, Stephen gave him a _what the fuck_ look, eyebrows rising as he continued to chop onions. 

“If he shuts them up, he can square dance for all I care.” Bruce muttered. “Actually, forget what I said, Clark would probably love that.” 

“Too late, Wayne,” Tony said, “Fifteen minutes!” 

Cackling, he ended the call and set down the phone. 

Stephen was still staring at him, knife in one hand. The eyebrows arched even further. Tony ignored him, walking toward the tv room and cupping his hands. 

“Peter! I need your help!”

  
  
  
The End 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) Leave me a comment, and let me know what you thought.


End file.
